Something More
by theimprobableone
Summary: Something is changing in Sherlock and he isn't sure what to make of it, he's never had a friend before and he doesn't know where the line between friendship and love really is, or more importantly, if he has already crossed it. Sherlock/John


So, this is a little bit of fluff that I wrote today, it's my first Sherlock fanfic, and it's not got much plot yet, hopefully people will like it and I'll try develop it some more :P

Anyway, read, and let me know if it's good, bad, or absolutely terrible.

Thanks in advance

XxXxXxXxXxX

**Something More**

Chapter 1 - Bed

**_*Mycroft*_**

Everyone just assumes.

They always speculate.

It's rather annoying.

People assume that Dr John Watson, _brilliant _Dr John Watson is Sherlock's puppy dog. They think that he is sad and lonely and a little bit crazy after the war and that is why he has latched onto the excitement that is my brother's life.

How very wrong they are.

How very ignorant.

Of course, John is enthralled by Sherlock, he is a very captivating man, however they just don't see it.

Sherlock let someone in.

He let someone real, someone average, into his life and has managed to keep him.

A first for Sherlock Holmes.

My brother unfortunately is a bit of a performer, everything he does is all just a show, all to impress his audience of one.

I do not understand why, but John Watson has managed what no-one else has. He's given Sherlock something to aim to, someone to please, he may never know it, but he has given my brother a meaning.

For that I am always grateful.

XxXxX

**_*Sherlock*_**

It is cold outside. John is out. Which is bad I decide. I like it when he is here; he is rather interesting. And also mine.

I find myself wondering around our little flat that I am rather fond of and stopping outside his bedroom door. I have not been inside this room since John moved in; it is after all his room.

How _strange_ that I should have acknowledged his privacy when I have little before cared for such conventions, I find myself breaking them now though as I push open his door, curious to see what I may deduce about my friend from the interior.

Friend. Another strange notion. Never before have I ever considered someone to be my friend, I've had long lists of acquaintances, colleagues, employers, admirers, followers, but never have I found an equal, never have I called another human my friend.

As much as I hate to admit it, it feels good. A need that never existed before John has been awoken within me and it is not entirely unpleasant. I find myself yearning for him, needing him to be around, hating it when he isn't. Especially when he is with _her, _as he is now, that plain girl from his clinic. Her name is not important.

I look around the room, it smells of John, which again is not unpleasant and I find it rather... comforting (another concept that is rather unfamiliar to me, comfort in another person, what is John doing to me?).

His clean clothes are neatly folded ready to be put away and there is a small pile of clothes for the washing in the corner closest to the door.

His window is closed, as expected in this season, but he keeps his clock, which is 3 minutes and 12 seconds fast, on the windowsill. On his bedside table is a book, a trashy paperback thriller (how dull), and a glass of water which is half empty or half full, though I never did see the point in that idiom.

At the foot of his double bed is his laptop, the light flashing to indicate that it is only on standby and not shutdown, probably so that he can access it quicker.

His bed is unmade, he got up late then, an army man would never leave his bed a mess, it was habit to make it perfectly. His thick quilt is tangled and scrunched up, indication that he had a rather restless night, nightmares. A flash of some foreign emotion courses through me as I deduce this. I don't want my John to hurt.

Still fully clothed I lay down in his bed and instinctively roll to the side where I know that John sleeps, I set my head down on his soft pillow and I pull his quilt over me, all I can smell is him now and I find myself smiling. I close my eyes, instantly seeing him behind my eyelids. _John. _

I'm in his room, in his bed, with his pillow and quilt and books and clothes and I feel home. More at home than in the rest of Baker Street, more at home than in my cold room which is currently where some of my more dangerous experiments are kept. John didn't appreciate the lethal ones being kept in the kitchen, where the food is.

It feels right me being here. I like it. The only thing missing is my flatmate (and if I get my way, which I always do, soon to be roommate).

I feel like a teenager.

I think... I...I think...

I think I like him okay!

In a...sex way.

God. What is happening to me?

I've never cared before, not much anyway. I've never had a proper relationship; my body is my brain's transport. Occasionally I lapse and indulge in my physical desires but they are just one night stands. Not a _fascination_ with my one and only friend.

I can still see him in my head, still smell him, I push my nose deeper into the covers until the scent is all that I can sense, all that I can think about. I don't know how long I lay here, perfectly still and just think of him before I begin to drift into a dreamy sleep. His face on my mind and his presence very much in my dreams.

XxXxX

I am very aware of someone looking, no _glaring _at me as I wake up. John's home then. I smile into his pillow, it's starting to smell of me. Problem. I'll have to fix that...

XxXxX

_***John***_

I open our door that evening to find...nothing. No Sherlock, no crazy experiments, nothing. He must have a case then, at least he'll be occupied. My date went well, but I just wanted to come home to...well to see Sherlock. I haven't heard from him all day, I'm a little worried. But he isn't here, so feeling disheartened for some unknown reason (he is JUST my flatmate), I head to my room, it's late and I am tired.

I stop at the door, which is half open, I never ever leave my door half open. _Sherlock!_

Cautiously I open it, I wouldn't put it past the detective to have set my bed on fire or something.

Great. Just great.

He hasn't set anything on fire at least. But he is...well he's asleep in my bed.

I think I should be angry, but he looks so peaceful. I realise that in all the time that I have known him, I have never seen him sleep. He looks so innocent, and so beautiful.

"Stop staring John and join me?" Sherlock says with his eyes closed, rolling slightly so that he is no-longer occupying my side of the bed.

I want to shout at him, I want to tell him off, force him out and onto the couch. (I really doubt that his room is fit for human habitation) But I can't. Instead I find myself taking off my coat and shoes and joining him. I see that he too is fully clothed which is re-assuring in some tiny way.

I lay down somewhat cautiously and with my back to my flatmate. I'm not sure that I could face him. I'm not sure what is happening.

Much to my surprise and shock, he winds his arms around my stomach and nuzzles his head into the crick of my neck, his soft dark curls tickling my cheek. He smells so unique.

Again, I _should _tell him to get off of me, but I can't find the words, and it feels, well...nice.

XxXxXxX

So, how was it?

JD xx


End file.
